


coconut flakes

by orphan_account



Category: Fantastic Four, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Johnny is a meme, M/M, Peter is lonely, Pool Sex, Swimming Pools, but consent is a BIG THING in this, but the banter and memes isnt really PLOT either??, i dont want to tag this pwp because a good portion of the fic is just banter and memes and not smut, idk - Freeform, its VERY light so light that i almost didnt tag it, my first time writing smut yikes, since they havent done it w/ each other before
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-07-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 07:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7425721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>to: flamebrain<br/>come over</p><p>(Or, the one where Peter and Johnny get it on in a swimming pool with blue lights.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	coconut flakes

**Author's Note:**

> ok.  
> SO.  
> yikes?
> 
> this is the first time i've written anything more graphic than a brief mention of a boner, so !?!??!? idk ?!?!? i felt really weird writing this and i cant guarantee that ill ever write it again but i figure if im mature enough to have and talk about sex i can write smut
> 
> this is based off of my pool!!! there was a cat lounging back there today when i was in the middle of writing this and i just ,, god bless. this fic also requires me getting in the pool so i could act out some positioning things. the things i do for writing. (ALSO. i mention a trashcan behind a fence in this fic, which, randomly enough, there is also a trashcan behind the fence of my actual pool. and then i looked again today and it WASNT THERE so now im questioning my life. maybe it wasnt a trashcan. maybe it was a stalker.) the events of this fic, unfortunately, are not based off of real experiences. 
> 
> if you're looking for more explanation on how the lights work, i posted [this](http://asexuallester.tumblr.com/post/147030203366) picture on tumblr, so, y'know, check it out. 
> 
> i'm starting to get scared of every single noise in my house since im downstairs in the dark at midnight, so imma leave this here. peace.

Peter’s house is too big for him.

Four bedrooms. Three bathrooms. A pool and a hot tub that light up in pretty colors.

He’d found out about the house when he was sixteen. The only thing that his parents had left for him was the house that he had spent the first few years of his life in. All of the money in their bank account at the time of their death had been donated to several charities and funds, which, well, Peter will never admit that he finds it a little annoying. They couldn’t have spared a _dime_ for him to go to college? Thankfully, he’d gotten a pretty great scholarship.

It’s nearing ten at night and he’s lurking in the pool, not really swimming but not really doing anything else, either. His phone is on the cement playing music, ranging from slow piano to Fall Out Boy. It’s nice.

Well, it _is_ nice, but then he starts getting paranoid. He hears a rustle in the bushes and thinks _that’s it, I’m gone, I’m dead._ The trashcan that he can see through the cracks of his fence is _obviously_ a person. That airplane? A UFO.

So Peter does the normal thing. He wipes his wet hands off on the cement (it doesn’t work that well, and just serves for him to have dust on his fingertips) and picks up his phone.

to: flamebrain

come over

His phone rings within the next two seconds. He puts it on speaker so he can put his hands back underwater, sliding down so only his lips and up are above water. “Is this a booty call?” Johnny demands. “Because if so, I’m down, man, but I don’t know where you live or anything.”

“It’s not a booty call,” Peter promises, and, well, it’s mostly true. Just because Peter _hopes -_ cough. Anyways. “But I’m swimming and I keep thinking every movement in the bushes is Hawkeye hiding in a tree about to kill me or something. Come swim with me.”

Johnny _whoops_ like an overexcited frat boy. “Hell yeah! What’s your address?” 

Peter relates the address to him. “The door is unlocked. It’s pretty easy to find your way through the house, so I’m trusting that you won’t break everything and/or get lost.”

“I can’t make any promises, dude,” Johnny says. “Man, I get to wear my Spider-Man trunks!”

“Please don’t,” Peter says, but the member of the Fantastic Four has already hung up.

God dammit.

A dog barks at him through the fence. “Are you barking at _my_ music?” Peter asks. “That’s disrespectful. If you don’t like Melanie Martinez, that’s your own fault.” There’s one more bark and then silence. He’s weirdly proud of himself. The brunet sings bits and pieces as he floats around, trying to keep his ears above water so he can both listen for Johnny and hear the music.

_Training Wheels_ is just ending when he hears a motorcycle pull into his driveway. “He’s being too loud,” Peter complains to himself. “My neighbors are gonna yell at me again.”

Because, you see, the house that his parents left for him? Is in a very white, rich neighborhood right on the edge of New York City. He has an _alarm system._ It’s like a lesser version of the house from the first Purge movie.

“Why did you never tell me that you were rich? Also, _what,_ I didn’t know that pool lights could be blue.” Peter spits pool water at him that goes a few inches in front of his face before falling uselessly back into the pool. Johnny, on the other side of the gate, rolls his eyes. “Real mature, Parker.”

“I’m not,” Peter says. “Rich, I mean. My parents left me this house but didn’t leave any of the money. I’m still a broke college student, I just thankfully never have to pay for the house, like, ever.”

“ _Sweet,_ ” Johnny says, and takes off his shirt. Peter doesn’t stare. Not at all. Why would he do that? Hah. When he takes off his jeans, Peter sees that he isn’t, in fact, wearing his Spider-Man trucks. Instead, they have little flames on them. Amazing. “Nice music taste, man. Twenty One Pilots are _badass._ ”

“Damn right they are.”

The blond boy opens the gate. “Dude, you have a hot tub?”

“Yeah, but something’s wrong with the jets. You can’t go in right now, sorry man.”

“Next time,” Johnny says, and before he can get a response, promptly cannonballs into the pool. The words echo in Peter’s ears. _Next time, next time, next time. There’s gonna be a next time._ Then, he wants to hit himself for it. _Of course there will be a next time. To Johnny, this is just bros hanging out. Dudes being friends. Nothing . . . homosexual about it . . .at all._

Peter recalls what the other boy had said a bit ago about pool lights, and responds, “They used to change into all the colors of the rainbow but now only blue works. It’s cool, I like it.”

Johnny responds by splashing him in the face. “You’re all lit up like an aesthetic Tumblr post.”

“Thanks, I think,” he replies, splashing him back. “Why you gotta be so rude, man?”

Torch hums what suspiciously sounds like the next line of the song before noticing something on the bottom of the pool. He squints. “Dude, what are all of these white flake things? Is that supposed to be there?”

“Mhm,” Peter answers. “You put sodium and chlorine in the pool. Sodium turns into flakes. Chlorine does its thing.”

“Huh,” Johnny says. “They look like coconut flakes.”

“You’re a coconut flake,” Peter says.

“That’s just mean. I’m calling Sue.”

Peter snorts, except his nose is part-way underwater so he ends up inhaling water and nearly _dying_. When he laughs at his own ridiculousness, bubbles pop to the surface. The leaves in one of the trees rustle, and Peter nearly jumps three feet. “Demons,” he tells Johnny. “Demons are in the trees.”

“I’m honestly so confused, man,” the superhero says. “You fight crime on a daily basis. And you’re afraid of _trees moving._ Don’t you have a Spidey sense?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “But what if it _breaks._ ”

“I don’t think that’s how powers work.”

“Yeah, well, your _face._ ”

“You’re a literal twelve-year-old.”

Peter blows a raspberry in response. “That's a bit hypocritical coming from you. You’re wearing swimming trunks with fire on them.”

“And?”

“And you’re the _Human Torch,_ ” Peter says. “What if Captain America walked around with his star symbol?”

“Iron Man probably has boxers with his face on them,” Johnny acknowledges.

“True, but he’s _Iron Man._ ” Without waiting for a response, Peter ducks his head underwater and kicks off of the wall, gliding for a few seconds before his head reaches the surface. Shaking his head in a way that is almost like a wet dog, he blinks his eyes open.

“You got water on me,” his friend complains.

“You’re literally in a pool, get over it, flamebrain.”

“Webhead,” Johnny fires back uselessly.

“You know what is pathetically hard for me to do?” Peter asks, swimming over to where his friend is so he can splash him. “Flip-turns. I do backflips on a daily basis yet flip-turns are downright _difficult._ ”

“What’s a flip-turn?”

“Watch this,” Peter says, and does a few freestyle strokes so he can get close to the edge of the pool, before flipping and pushing off. However, he fucks it up, and when he resurfaces he’s not going the right direction. “Don’t use that as an example. It’s the thing that people do when they swim laps.”

Johnny, of course, gets it right on his first try, and then calls Peter childish for sticking his tongue out at him.

That’s just rude. Peter tries to web him before remembering that he’s not wearing his web-shooters. God _dammit._

Peter floats on his back, kicking his feet in an attempt to get as far away from Johnny as his pool will allow. His head bumps into the wall of the shallow end. It kind of hurts. “You’re bullying me, I’mma tell my mom on you.”

“You don’t have a mom.”

“I’mma tell my _aunt_ on you.”

“Aunt May loves me. She taught me how to make pecan pie, remember?”

“Well . . . shit. I’ll tell Steve on you.”

“Oh, _please don’t._ He’ll make the face. Plus he doesn’t like me anyway. Something about me looking like him . . .?”

“You guys don’t look anything alike, though,” Peter says with a roll of his eyes, sitting on one of the steps leading into the pool “Your hair is completely different. Also, you’re always smirking and I don’t even know if Steve knows _how_ to smirk. _And_ he’s a decent person. You’re just a silly loser.” 

Johnny has seemingly moved from the deep end to the pool to the shallow end and is now lurking in front of Peter. “Oh? If I’m such a bad person, why am I here? ‘Cause you don’t have any other friends?”

“I have countless . . . dozens . . . a few . . . _one_ other friend,” he responds, his voice light even though it’s 100% true. His friends consist of superheroes who barely tolerate him. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you would disintegrate when you touched water. You _are_ fire, y’know.”

“That’s true,” Johnny allows, before kneeling on the step below the one that Peter is sitting on. The brunet may or may not watch the way the water drips down the other man’s chest and evaporating before they can slide back into the pool. The blond man is _right in front of Peter, holy shit, has no one taught him about personal space?_ “Are you going to tell me the real reason I’m here, then?”

“Wha-”

“Tell me I’ve been reading this wrong,” Johnny says, abnormally quiet. Peter is distantly aware that his music has, at some point, stopped playing. Did his phone die or did Johnny just shut the music off? “Tell me that you aren’t interested in me _the slightest bit_ and I’ll go, and the next time we see each other we’ll pretend this never happened. Tell me you don’t want me and I’ll go.”

_Well. That was unexpected._

Peter opens his mouth before realizing he has no idea what to say. “You’re not reading things wrong,” he tells his friend. “Not at all.”

The blond leans in, lips so close that there are mere centimeters between the two of them. Peter’s legs spread instinctively to give Johnny the room to be there. “Can I kiss you? I - I don’t want to fuck this up, Pete.” He rolls his eyes when he gets a mere nod in response. “I need a yes.”

“ _Yes,_ ” Peter says. “Yes, oh God, _please._ ”

And that’s enough. Johnny closes the distance and kisses him, soft and tongueless. One hand is on Peter’s waist, and the other is on his thigh where his trunks have hiked up. _He doesn’t taste like anything. Just lips,_ Peter notices, and wonders what he tastes like. Probably chlorine.

Johnny draws away, leaving their foreheads touching. Peter looks down to marvel at the way Johnny’s hand looks when it’s gripping his thigh. The contrast in skin tone isn’t big - the blond being just the slightest shade paler, but it’s just enough to be noticeable.

“You look so _good,_ ” Johnny says, seemingly breathless, and, well, if Peter wasn’t hard _already,_ he sure would be now. “I’ve been wanting to do this all damn night, Peter, I just _couldn’t._ ”

“I get it,” Peter says. “I’ve been crushing on you for _years,_ and I never did anything.”

“ _Years,_ ” Johnny repeats, dazed. “I could have been kissing you for _years_?” Peter leans in to make up for lost time, but the blond gently pushes back. “Nope. We gotta talk this out, man, like two adults. Any doubts, any concerns? Hit me up now, baby, we got the rest of our lives to get sexy.”

_The rest of our lives._ Peter likes the sound of that. “Fair enough. Um. Until about thirty seconds ago, I was under the impression that you were straight. _Very straight._ ”

“M’not,” Johnny says, and his hand is stretching out on Peter’s thigh. His thumb hits the inner thigh, just an _inch_ away from his dick, and Peter couldn’t have stopped the small whining noise that escapes his lips if he’d tried. Johnny groans, similar yet deeper, in response. “Never ‘ave been. Gayer than you, probably.”

“Gay or bi?” Peter asks, not because it matters, really, but because he’s curious. If it’s the former, Johnny _is_ technically gayer than Peter, who has dated and loved men, women, and people who identified as neither.

“Gay,” Johnny confirms, but Peter is having a bit of a hard time focusing since Johnny’s hand is trailing up and down and up and down his leg. “All those girls - first I was trying to prove something. To myself. A lot of them were beards and they knew it. Then I - have you ever met a Johnny Storm from another universe?” When Peter shakes his head, he continues. “I think we’re all gay. All of us. Some are married to women and they are _miserable._ Some are out and proud and happy and, oh God, I know that I said I want to talk this out, and really, I do, but your lips just look so red and kissable and if I don’t get to kiss you again tonight I might _cry._ ”

“No more questions from me,” Peter says, wrapping the ends of his legs around the back of Johnny’s upper leg to keep the other man stuck in place. The action makes their crotches press together, and Peter swears that he can see stars even though the contact itself is minimal. It’s gotta be something about the fact that it’s _Johnny,_ his long-time crush, and not his own hand that makes it feel ten thousand times better.

“I’ve got one,” Johnny says, lips barely brushing against Peter’s when he speaks. “I wanna make you feel good. Will you let me make you feel good?” He trails his hand that’s on Peter’s thigh up until it’s under his shorts, tips of his fingers nearly poking out of the waistband.

“Oh, _yes,_ ” Peter responds. “ _Please._ I’m not above - _oh_.” He cuts himself off as Johnny’s lips are on his neck, sucking marks that will never stay. The hand on his waist is burning holes into his skin and _wow,_ he’s danced this dance a hundred times with a handful of people, but it’s never felt so _fiery._ When he catches himself thinking that, he smiles to himself, because _of course_ it’s “fiery”. This is the Human Torch that we’re talking about here.

Both of Johnny’s hands pull down on the edges of his shorts, letting the fabric roll down his hips and expose his dick. He repositions himself around Peter so that the hand that was around the brunet’s waist is now on his cock, and the hand that was on his thigh is now gentle on his back. Johnny strokes down the shaft in one fluid motion, his own dick pressed against Peter’s hipbone, and Peter _whimpers,_ and that must spur the blond on because within seconds he’s being jerked off properly. There’s something about doing it in the pool, where every movement seems easier and looser, that gives everything they’re doing an almost dreamlike feel to it.

He honestly has no control over the noises he makes, the little _oh_ s and drawn-out moans leaving his mouth consistently. Johnny also seems to have no control over his mouth, but in a different way. When he isn’t kissing Peter’s skin, he’s mumbling filthy nothings into his ear. “ _God,_ you look so good like this. You like the way I touch you, baby? I love the pretty sounds you make, c’mon, make them again. Bet I could get you to sound like this without even touching you.”

The words coming out of the blond’s mouth compared with the fact that it’s _him_ jerking him off is enough to have Peter bucking into the hand touching him, heat rapidly building in his abdomen. “Johnny,” he says, meant as a warning, but he can’t get the rest of the words out.

“Say it again.”

“ _Johnny-_ ”

“Fuck. Again.”

“Johnny, Johnny, _Johnny,_ I’m gonna come, c’mon, please let me, _please,_ oh God, _please-_ ”

“I’ve got you,” is his answer, and the voice is completely _wrecked._ “Come for me, Peter, just like that. Let go, baby.”

So Peter _does._ With a moan that is bordering on a scream that his rich suburban neighbors most definitely heard, he arches into Johnny’s touch and comes. Johnny’s hand, though now erratic, doesn’t stop moving until Peter is gently pushing him away to avoid overstimulation.

“Holy shit,” Peter says, moving backwards so he can slump against the wall of the pool. Johnny scuttles after him and leans his head on the brunet’s shoulder.

“Yeah. You have cum floating around in your pool now, though. That’s kinda gross.”

…

“I have never heard someone ruin a moment so fast in my life. Thanks, J.”

“Hey, it’s not like you haven’t probably peed in this pool before.”

“Ew. Hey, you, uh, need me to do you?”

“What?” Johnny asks, sticking his head back up, but when what Peter asked sinks in, he goes red. “No, I, um. I’m good.”

Well, _that_ gives a guy an ego boost. “Huh. Am I really that cute that you got off getting _me_ off?”

“What can I say,” Johnny says with a cracked grin. “You’re pretty, baby, don’t deny it.”

Peter licks his lips, trying to get the courage to say what he wants to say next. “This is . . . this wasn’t a one-time thing, right? Because I kind of really like you. Romantically.”

Johnny laughs. “Well, I like you romantically too. Boom. Boyfriends.”

“Boyfriends,” Peter agrees, and numbly thinks that he’ll ask Johnny out properly in the morning. Which, hey, isn’t a bad idea: “Hey. Spend the night tonight. My bed’s big enough for two. Hell, my _house_ is big enough for eight people.”

The blond hums. “You want a round two, huh? I can comply.”

The though actually hadn’t even crossed Peter’s mind. All he had been thinking about was the fact that he wants Johnny to be next to him when he goes to bed that night. “We don’t need to,” Peter says with a shrug. “We can just watch a movie and then cuddle and sleep.”

“Okay, I have a proposal,” Johnny says. “How about we do that _and_ round two?”

“That works,” Peter agrees.

-

(Round two is Johnny fucking Peter into the couch. Round three is a sleepy blow job in bed. Round four is morning sex. Round five is shower sex. Round twenty-three is “oh my God, we almost died” sex. Round forty-one is “I love you, I love you, I love you” sex.)

Then, Peter loses track. He suspects that their post-engagement sex is somewhere around the two-hundreds, though.

**Author's Note:**

> rose-red doors is coming soon. i'm having a creative block.
> 
> also??? who wants a fic of aunt may teaching infatuated-with-peter johnny how to make pecan pie?? because i will write the fuck out of that.
> 
> also s/o to my bud elliot for giving me advice on how to write smut lol


End file.
